


Help Unlooked For

by FailingTheTest



Series: The Shakeup [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Skye | Daisy Johnson, Gen, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7729504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FailingTheTest/pseuds/FailingTheTest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A U.N. Sokovia Accords enforcement team has tracked down a non-compliant individual with a little help from the ATCU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Handwritten, then revised when typed. Probably typos.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ATCU agents Clayton and Sullins on temporary duty with Sokovia Accords enforcement discuss the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clayton and Sullins are original characters. There are mentions of Marvel characters in this chapter; others show up later.

### Mullet One

"Took you long enough," Clayton groused as he accepted the cardboard drink tray from his partner.

"Kitchen was backed up. The cashier said they just got a large to-go order a few minutes before I walked in."

"You were in there almost forty minutes! Exactly how large was this take-out order?"

Sullins shrugged. "I dunno, really. But I heard the cooks complaining - loudly - about 'enough food to feed a starving platoon'. Don't give me that look, that's a direct quote."

"And why is it I didn't see any platoon-sized to-go box come out the door while I was waiting for my coffee and bagel?"

"Probably because it went to a customer who hasn't left the diner yet. Besides, it was more like a small squad's worth of food, not a whole platoon. Now be quiet a minute and let me eat my egg sandwich before it gets cold."

"How can you eat that stuff?" Clayton mumbled around a mouthful of bagel. The pair sat in silence for a few minutes, chewing thoughtfully and keeping watch on the diner.

Washing the last of the bagel down with a sip of coffee, Clayton cleared his throat. "So, was the target in there?"

Sullins considered the question, crumpling his sandwich wrapper into a ball. "I _think_ so. Was sitting in a booth way back in the corner, away from the cashier and the door - I couldn't really get a good look without being pretty damn conspicuous."

"I'm sure you could have done _something_ to get closer without the subject catching on ..."

"Oh yeah? Enlighten me, o wise one." Waiting a few seconds, Sullins gave a derisive snort. "That's what I thought," he muttered, looking back towards the diner. After another half minute or so, he quietly asked "What are we even doing here?"

"We're here because the Sokovia Accords enforcement guys asked the ATCU for surveillance backup on this op," Clayton said, sounding slightly relieved at the change in topic.

"Yeah I got that much, Clay. I'm wondering why _we_ are here. I mean, we're door-kickers, not intel types. This ain't the sort of thing we did much of back in MARSOC."

"Maybe because our team got the highest scores in those training sessions last week," Clayton posited.

"Again, that may be why the General sent _our_ team, but why are we here doing an intel job instead of an intel team?"

"Man, Sully, I don't know. Maybe Talbot doesn't really trust the spooks? I mean, the ATCU was already established when President Ellis named the General to head it." Clayton shrugged. "Could be he just wanted his own people on a joint op with the new international squad."

Sullins thought about his partner's speculation, keeping an eye on the diner's front door the whole time. "Okay, I can see that. Another possibility is the spy shop is just really short-handed right now. I mean, four days of classes, twelve hours a day, we saw what? _Maybe_ five different instructors, covering everything from communications to contingency planning to covert takedowns. There should have been a few more people available to teach us grunts how to not blow their cover, right?"

Now Clayton was nodding his agreement, "That's true. If I recall correctly at least half the classes were taught by that tiny Asian lady. Who was also the agent that briefed us for this op; she did seem sort of ... off. Maybe just tired, but there was something ..."

"Scary?" Sullins interrupted. "That's the best adjective I can think of to describe _Agent May_ \- definitely not 'tiny Asian lady'."

"Heh, the way you were staring at her during the briefing I would have thought your chosen adjective would be 'hot', but I guess 'scary' explains you beating feet as soon as she finished." Clayton grinned briefly before continuing, "While you were making a hasty retreat, I stuck around to ask if they had any spy gadgets that might be of use to us on a joint op - other than these nifty glasses of course," he tapped the frame of the normal-looking aviator sunglasses he wore.

"Speaking of, I've been keeping an eye on the diner and haven't seen our target come out. Did I miss anything that you picked up with the spook specs?" Sullins chuckled ruefully. "I've got to admit, the digital zoom and real-time enhancement software make me wish I'd won the toss."

"I'm still kind of bummed we're too far away to make use of the backscatter mode," Clayton replied. "And yes, I've been watching for the subject - still hasn't come out the front, and Roth would have told us if he came out the back."

"True." Roth was the final member of the tiny ATCU team the Enforcement people had 'borrowed' for this operation; another 'operator' like Sullins and Clayton, though he'd been a SEAL rather than a Marine. "Okay, why don't you just keep watching while you tell me what Agent May had to say about your request."

"Well, she thought about it for a few seconds, then just looked over at that twitchy Scot -" Clayton started, before Sullins interrupted again.

"Agent Fitz. 'That twitchy Scot' is Agent Fitz," he said insistently.

"Oh ... kay. Anyway." Sullins could practically hear the furrowed brow. " _Agent Fitz_ just nodded back at her, and pulled out this -" Clayton lifted an unopened can of soda from where it had been sitting on the bench.

"I'm assuming that's not some sort of super energy drink the spies use to stay awake on stakeouts, so what exactly is it?"

"Dual-purpose anti-snooping device. Sub- and ultra-sonic white noise generator to foul up most bugs and directional mics - useful for sitting in a public park talking about classified operations," Clayton said with a smirk. "It also generates a faint vibration for screwing with laser mics; has to be placed within a few feet of the glass for full effect."

"Judging by that little smirk, you've got this thing running right now?" Sullins asked. At his partner's answering nod, he continued, "Doesn't it interfere with the glasses - or the comm units the Accords guys gave us, for that matter?"

The smirk became a smug grin. "Nope. The comms work off of vibrations conducted via the bones in the skull; neither function interferes with that. As for the glasses, do you really think the tech types would send us out with two conflicting devices?"

Sullins scoffed at the thought; no, he didn't really think the agents he'd been taking classes from would make that sort of mistake. "You're probably right," he conceded, checking his watch and frowning. "Are you _sure_ our guy hasn't come out yet?"

"Give me a break, Sully, I _am_ capable of multitasking. There have only been three people out the front door since you, and only two in. And again, Roth would have mentioned if anything happened out back." Clayton paused to check the time himself, and frowned slightly as he realized how long their target had been in the diner. "Wonder what he's doing in there that's taking so long."

"Eh, if I've got the right table, it looked like he might have been ordering seconds; there was a waitress over there, anyway." Sullins suddenly grinned, remembering the scene at the corner booth. "That, or the cute little brunette chatting him up was ordering something."

" _What_!? He was talking to somebody? Why didn't you mention this before? They could be making contact, or she could be warn-" Clayton broke off abruptly as the subject himself stepped out of the diner, pausing to courteously hold the door for a pair of elderly ladies before casually walking down the sidewalk.

"Clay, what is it?" Sullins' voice was edged with irritation as he continued after a few seconds, " _I'm_ not wearing the fancy spy glasses, so what exactly is going on?"

"Shut up, Sully," Clayton responded absently, before tapping the control to activate his comms. "Central, Mullet One. Subject sighted leaving diner, headed south on Plymouth Drive, on foot. Be advised subject may, repeat may, have made contact with an individual inside the diner. Possible contact is female, brunette -" he looked at Sullins and silently asked _Age? Height?_ After Sullins replied, Clayton continued "- twenty-five to thirty years old, between five foot three and five-eight. Recommend follow-up surveillance on this possible contact, over."

_"Mullet One, Central. Negative on second subject at this time. Team Bassett has eyes on the primary and will take it from here. RTB, Mullet; over."_

"Central, Mullet One. If the girl _is_ a contact, we'll be giving her a huge head start if we break contact now, over."

_"Mullet One, Central. Post-op cleanup teams will pull the diner's security footage; we'll do a full workup on your 'contact' then."_ The barely concealed contempt in the Enforcement agent's tone made Clayton's jaw clench, but he stayed quiet. _"Now RTB Mullet; the ATCU is done for the day. Central out."_

"Central, Mullet One copies. We are RTB." Before he got the circuit switched off, Clayton heard Roth's slightly breathless voice confirm he was returning to base as well.

"What's with the scowl? I thought you'd be glad to be done with this op," Agent Sullins asked carefully.

Clayton looked at him a moment and decided not to go into the dismissive attitude Central had given him. He shrugged irritably, "Roth. He's giggling like a schoolgirl over the 'Mullet Team' bit. He still thinks it's hilarious."

Sullins merely shook his head at Clayton's grousing. "Alright, let's get out of here." Both men stood, bringing litter and spy gadgets with them as they walked north, headed for Mullet Team's rally point. After a couple of minutes, Sullins glanced back at the diner - no sign of the brunette. "I wonder if they'll get him," he mused quietly.

Clayton was still muttering under his breath about 'never letting Roth choose the call signs again'. Sullins had to nudge him with an elbow to get a response. "Hmm? Oh, the Accords guys? Unless they brought a lot more manpower or resources than they let us see, I wouldn't put much money on it. In fact, I rather hope we get to see the after-action report; Steve Rogers will make it interesting however it turns out."

Sullins simply nodded in agreement.


	2. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers gets an intriguing table companion with his breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, Marvel characters!

### Blue Canvas Tote

Steve Rogers bit back a grin at the bemused expression on the waitress' face as she turned to put in his to-go order. _"Five more just like this,"_ he'd said, waving at the large breakfast special spread over a goodly portion of the table. He'd collect the additional purchase when he was ready to head back to his rental car, parked a few blocks away. The captain at the Salvation Army shelter on the next street over had confirmed the meals would be welcome - and also recommended this diner, which Steve had seen on his way into town.

As he dug into his delicious-smelling breakfast, he resumed his unobtrusive survey of the diner's other customers. Though fairly busy, Steve had managed to get a seat against a wall, facing the door and across from the two-person tables next to the windows. He could see most of the dining area, and a good bit of the street outside.

Because he was looking, he spotted the man as soon as he walked in the door. Giving no sign he'd spotted what was probably the latest in a long line of tails, Steve calmly continued eating as he studied the newcomer.

Tallish, well-built; hair and posture suggested recent military experience, though with the proliferation of special operations teams in the world after SHIELD went down 'recent' could be 'current'. Maybe the man belonged to one of the various intelligence agencies' paramilitary groups, or was a private contractor working for any or all of the above.

Steve suppressed a sigh when he realized how easily he'd concealed his study. There had been entirely too many opportunities to practice this kind of thing since he'd left Bucky in Wakanda - a mere two weeks ago - in order to make his way back to the United States. He wondered - for what felt like the thousandth time - how they had gotten on his trail after he lost the last bunch. Something was going to have to give, eventually; either he would finally figure out what he was doing to give the game away, or he wouldn't be able to break contact. And if they caught up to him who knew what would happen - what Steve might be forced to do in order to get away.

His increasingly brooding thoughts slithered to a halt as a slender brunette, cradling a coffee mug in one hand and holding a plated piece of pie in the other, stopped at his elbow and asked, "Do you mind if I share your table? All the open two-tops are in direct sunlight at the moment, and I'm not quite ready for that much sun this morning." The wry smile she gave him had Steve's lips twitching involuntarily, and he'd nodded his assent before he remembered he was being followed by parties unknown. _Oh well_ , he thought, _they probably won't try anything in the middle of a busy restaurant anyway._

As she sat with a murmured "Thank you," Steve glance around, checking on the maybe-ex-military guy - there, at the counter, putting in a to-go order of his own. In passing he noted a handful of open seats in shaded locations between his own table and the cashier. He chewed thoughtfully on a bite of hash browns, watching as the young woman across from him did the same.

With a mental shrug Steve decided to go directly at the issue. He was tired of dancing around. "Why my table, if you don't mind me asking? I'm thinking you're not just trying to stay away from bright sunlight," he said, keeping his tone as neutral as he could.

The quick grin she flashed him was not a response he was expecting. "Okay, you got me. I just figured a guy sitting with his back to a wall, facing both possible exterior entryways, would be most likely to indulge this morning's bout of paranoia. Never can tell when you're _not_ imagining there are people following you, you know?"

Steve spent the duration of her rambling reply studying the woman across from him. At first glance the open, friendly expression on her face was as bright as the sunshine she was pretending to avoid. But when he looked closer, Steve note a tightness around her lips, in the set of her shoulders. She was worried, or stressed, but taking great care to project relaxation in her body language. He was reminded rather uncomfortably of times when he'd _known_ Natasha was lying to him; what that said about his table companion, he didn't know. Yet. He decided a little testing was in order, to find out if she was more than she appeared.

"Well, it's like they say," Steve paused to sip his coffee, then allowed his voice to take on a cold edge as he continued, "'Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you'."

The slow grin that lit up her face - so unlike the feigned cheer of moments before - took him by surprise. He couldn't help but smile back, despite his lingering suspicions about her motives. After a few seconds, Steve noticed the woman's smile was fading, and realized he had been holding his goofy, crooked smile just a touch too long. He ducked his head and forced a neutral expression before looking back up. At her questioning eyebrow Steve simply shook his head.

He cleared his throat and began an apology for his abrupt tone, but paused when he noticed the waitress approaching their table. Something in his body language must have communicated this to the brunette, because the cheery mask dropped back over her face in an instant. All warmth leached out of her expression and her posture stiffened minutely, and Steve suddenly felt as if the room had dropped a few degrees in temperature. He shrugged mentally and looked away, focusing his gaze on the waitress.

"The rest of your order is just about ready, sir." She glanced around the booth briefly. "How were you planning to carry your to-go items?" she inquired politely.

His confusion must have been obvious; the brunette stifled a giggle and explained, "He's not from around here - California's bag laws are new to him. At the incredulous look Steve shot her, she continued, "Hey, I may be from out of town too but I lived in L.A. for a while."

She turned to the waitress. "How much for one of those canvas tote bags I saw at the counter? The blue ones with the logo on the side."

"One big enough to carry his take-out order?" the waitress asked, hooking a thumb at Steve. Fifteen dollars total, taxes and fees included."

Steve's bemusement only grew when the young woman handed the waitress a twenty.

"It's on me," she smiled her mask-smile at him, "I'll try to clue him in while we wait for his order."

"Back in a few," the waitress said before stepping away.

Before the brunette could open her mouth, Steve spoke up. "I get the gist. Something to keep in mind next time I visit old friends out here." And just like that, the mask disappeared once more and she smiled at him. He was glad; the pretense of happiness sat uneasily on the woman, in a way that was ... disconcerting to him.

Again, Steve's ruminations were interrupted by his new acquaintance. "'Next time'? You don't plan on sticking around for long?"

"No, I'm just passing through. Visited my friend Timothy outside Hollywood, now I'm headed up to Fresno to see my friend Jim. The Memorial Day holiday seemed like a good time to visit old army buddies." The prevarication came easily after so much time hanging around Natasha, but though he tried to keep his tone level he was sure a sad note had crept into his voice. The woman's only response was to nod and keep smiling, though the wattage seemed to drop, and Steve thought he saw an answering echo of melancholy at the backs of her dark brown eyes.

The pair sat quietly, sipping the last of their coffees and seemingly lost to their own thoughts. Just as Steve decided to speak up and break the companionable silence, the waitress arrived with his take-out order, boxed and stacked in a blue canvas bag.

"Here you go, sir," the waitress placed the bag on the end of the table before turning to the brunette. "And your change," she handed over a five dollar bill along with a printed register receipt.

"Thank you, ma'am," Steve replied, even as the young woman across from him spoke up.

"Could I borrow your pen for a second?" she asked as the waitress turned to leave. The woman handed it over with a knowing smile - Steve was certain he knew what she was thinking. "Thank you," the brunette said absently as she scribbled something on the back of the receipt. When she had finished the short note, she handed the pen back with a smile. "Thanks again!"

Turning back to Steve, she slid the note across the table. "If you want to pay me back for the bag," she started, glancing over her shoulder at the retreating waitress, "give me a call at that number."

She stood and moved to the end of their table, leaned in to place a hand on his right shoulder, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, just in front of his ear. Her lips lingered there, just brushing his skin, long enough to whisper "Good luck, Cap," in a voice so quiet he nearly missed it, even with his enhanced hearing.

Steve couldn't stop the blush that rose on his cheeks, nor did he keep himself from freezing up entirely as the brunette confirmed his suspicions - she knew exactly who he was. Before he could shake off the temporary paralysis, she'd straightened and stepped back. "Call me?" she asked, and then with a crooked smile and a half wave, she left him sitting alone.

He blinked and watched for a moment as she headed for the public restrooms, then looked down at the note. A first glance confirmed she'd written down a phone number; a second look revealed a second, smaller piece of paper under the receipt. Slipping the number away from the slim paper it concealed, Steve tried to pretend he was enraptured by getting a cute girl's number. He quickly revealed another hand-written note, in the same scrawl as the number: _Accords Enforcement grab teams in town. Numbers and equipment unknown. Get out ASAP. Destroy this note._

Forcing himself to continue the act, Steve plastered on a small smile, then brought his left hand up as if hiding an incipient grin. With his right hand he made a show of examining the digits, then putting the note carefully in his shirt's breast pocket. He hoped he'd done that convincingly, because most of his mind was focused on swallowing the second note without being obvious.

Steve still couldn't discount the possibility the woman was a hostile agent, but if he took the intel at face value then he'd only be expediting his departure. That, and _perhaps_ trying to be slightly more alert, though he was pretty sure he'd spotted every tail and watcher thus far. He gathered up his jacket and new tote bag and left the diner, spotting the maybe-former-military guy from earlier sitting on a bench in the park when Steve paused to hold the door for a couple of arriving diner patrons.

His tail was sharing the bench with another man, who looked to be cut from the same olive-drab cloth. Steve noted in passing that the new guy had a rather grim expression for such a sunny morning. Pretending not to see them, or the second team waiting to the north, Steve turned and headed south.

Drop off the spare meals at the Salvation Army, two blocks up and one street over. Head back to the lot where he'd parked his rental. Hope any ... action would wait till he got out of town, or that he could at least keep the ruckus away from bystanders. Get out of town and break contact. Again.

 _Piece of cake_ , Steve thought as he strode down the street. _Right._


	3. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve attempts to get out of town ahead of the Accords enforcement teams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of action here; hope it's intelligible!

### A Dozen To-Go

Steve Rogers turned into the alleyway leading to a small public parking lot where he'd stashed his rental, folded empty blue tote in hand. He slowed as he approached the lot; this was the first place the Accords people would be likely to try for him - mostly away from civilians and relatively enclosed.

He glanced over his shoulder, noting there was nobody currently tailing him. The initial trail team from the diner had handed off to another when he cut across a secondary road and headed back towards the Salvation Army shelter. The second team had in turn dropped out of sight when Steve entered the shelter; a third pair was waiting after he dropped off the food. That final team had now backed off, which moved the parking lot from "possible" to "probable" for an attempt.

_Although,_ he thought, _maybe they just backed off because they put a tracker in my car. Then they could follow and try to pick me up just about anywhere._ He shook his head. _No, I'll check my car for any unwanted additions before I leave, just like every time since I left Wakanda. They have to know that._

Steve almost wished the snatch team was Hydra - or SHIELD, as if there was a difference. At least then he'd be able to predict general tactics, if not precisely when or where they'd employ them. This new UN group, though, he had no clue how an Accords Enforcement team would set up an op like this. It would likely depend almost entirely on the field commander on-scene; the whole lash-up was too new to have developed standard procedures yet.

One real possibility was an all-up ambush as soon as he reached his car. Heavy suppressing fire to force him to take cover, disable the vehicle, keep him from breaking out. Then hit him with some sort of less-lethal weapon or weapons; rubber bullets and bean bags, gas canisters, stun guns or tasers, maybe even low-powered (or poorly copied) versions the various toys Stark used in his suits.

No, that would make too much noise, draw too much attention. So far the people following him seemed to want to keep this operation below public notice. _They'll try something at the lot, but it will be low-key. Relatively._ Steve grimaced and accelerated slightly, deciding that the best way out was probably through. Besides, he'd left his gear in the trunk. _Here goes nothing._

He crossed the last few yards to his rental; an unobtrusive survey showed no obvious watchers in the lot. Continuing to scan the lot, Steve reached down to open the driver's door so he could pop the trunk latch - only to pause with a puzzled frown as the door refused open.

Trying the handle again, he noted that the latch mechanism seemed to be operating, but the door ... A closer looked revealed several spot-welds holding it tightly shut. _Well, that seems a bit crude,_ Steve thought as he took a deep breath and prepared to force the door.

Just as he began to pull, the sound of booted feet rushing into the lot came to him from all sides. Rogers stopped trying to force the door and closed his eyes, letting himself lean forward onto the car as he listened closely to the team that had come to get him. 

_Light tactical gear, not full battle rattle. About a dozen men. And they've stopped closing._ He opened his eyes, noting the four troopers arrayed on the far side of his car before turning around. Eight more men stood around him: four in an arc slightly to his right, about ten feet away. Three similarly positioned to his left, with one more directly in front of him.

The group seemed to be armed to the teeth: each trooper had a sidearm holstered at his hip, and they were carrying a variety of weapons both slung and shouldered. Steve noted carbines, sub-machineguns, a shotgun, and a couple of items he couldn't immediately identify. Probably some of those less-lethal toys he'd been expecting.

After he'd noted each weapon's location, he focused his attention on the man directly in front of him - as the only trooper who wasn't holding a weapon, Steve figured him for the squad leader. 

Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, the man confirmed it, suddenly grinning and holding out his hands, fingers spread in a placating gesture. "We're not your enemies, Captain Rogers."

_Ah, the Rumlow approach,_ Steve thought sardonically.

"However," the leader continued, "you are an enhanced individual operating without United Nations authorization, and therefore in violation of the Sokovia Accords. As such, I'm going to have ask you to come along quietly so we can get everything sorted out."

The patronizing tone set Steve on edge, but he made himself respond in a neutral voice. "And if I decline to be 'sorted out'?"

"Well," here the man casually waved at the squad arrayed around Rogers, "between us I believe we have more than enough firepower to bring you in. Even a super-soldier such as yourself will have a bit of trouble resisting effectively when he's had both elbows and knees shot out," he finished with a vicious little smirk.

Steve simply gazed back calmly, his mind running over the positions of his opposition. _Start with the three on the left._ "So that's how it's gonna be?" _Keep the car and those three between me and the rest._ "You're not my enemies, but you'll start shooting if I don't surrender?" _Fake a break out, suck them in._ He cocked his head inquisitively. _Then strike._

At the spokesman's small nod, Steve let his shoulders slump slightly, nodding in return - and then he launched himself at the left-most of his enemies.

People had been underestimating him since well before the serum, these thugs were no different, though they did better than most. Even as his first target fell to a flashing left cross, his two fellows backpedaled rapidly and tried to bring their weapons to bear. Steve knew the troopers behind him were moving to clear their own line of fire, knew he didn't have much time to break containment. So he accelerated directly at the newest left flanker, trusting his speed to get him in close where the rest couldn't fire without hitting their own.

It almost worked. Steve lowered his shoulder, barreling into his target and slamming him backwards into the side of a nearby van; but before he had even completed the motion pain lanced through him and his muscles seized up, sending him crashing to the ground. As he lay there twitching, he noticed his most recent target was also down and spasming - there seemed to be a sparking, barbed projectile sticking out of his chest, as well as two more embedded in the side of the massively dented van.

_Well, a scatter-gun launching overgrown Widow's Stings isn't something I was expecting,_ Steve thought wonderingly. He felt the effects beginning to lessen, and started to check the remaining troopers' positions, only to be hit by another surge of electricity.

Even through the pain and convulsions racking his body, he determined that the four goons from the backside of his rental had moved in behind him, and three of the four right flankers started cautiously toward him. The last two flankers, one each from the original right and left wings, had moved in closer to the leader; they seemed to be a sort of guard element.

The current stopped a second time. Steve rode out the residual tremors, mentally preparing to counterattack, when he heard the squad leader's gleeful, malicious order. "Hit it again!"

The trio advancing on him paused a couple of yards away while one fiddled with a series of controls on the side of his weapon. Steve noted this activity in passing, and braced for a renewed electrical onslaught. However, most of his attention was elsewhere: the small, dark figure he'd spotted moving rapidly in behind the troopers.

Before the man could trigger the knock-off Widow's Sting again, the newcomer slammed a kick into the back of one thug's knee, then used the momentum of his collapse to swing him around and send him careening into his fellows. The impact knocked one off his feet; the other fumbled the weapon he'd been adjusting, sending it clattering to the ground. The mystery attacker then lashed out with a side kick to the center of the now-weaponless goon's back, sending him stumbling towards the command element.

"You four, stay on him!" came the leader's voice as one of the quartet behind Steve started forward to assist his squad mates. From his spot on the ground, Rogers noted their positions even as he watched in fascination as the - woman? yes, a young woman - recovered from the side kick and spun back to the pair she had knocked down. The trooper nearest Steve had struggled back to his knees and was attempting to bring his weapon into firing position.

The woman simply stepped forward, a straight legged front kick slamming into the man's face. Her boot landed solidly; the heel crunched into his nose, bright red instantly running down his cheeks. At the same time, the ball of her foot had impacted the front rim of the trooper's ballistic helmet, snapping his head violently back into Steve's rental and smashing the driver's door window.

Even as his unconscious body slid down the side of the car, the woman was closing on her first victim, slipping around behind his kneeling form to deny his allies a clear shot. Then she simply reached forward and swept the helmet off her human shield before shifting slightly to her right, before twisting back to the left with a vicious elbow strike to his temple, dropping the ersatz barrier like the proverbial sack of potatoes.

Steve blinked, marveling at the ruthless efficiency. Less than ten seconds had elapsed since this mystery woman arrived, and she had already thrown his attackers into disarray. Only two troopers remained from the initial right flank, and both were warily advancing on the woman, apparently attempting to capture her. She didn't wait around to find out, striding directly at the nearest trooper she launched her attack.

As his unexpected ally began to engage two goons at once, Steve heard the four men behind him muttering unhappily. _Never give an order you know won't be obeyed,_ he thought, preparing to act when the troopers inevitably went to their compatriot's aid.

He had barely finished the thought when a pair of men started to move between Steve and his car, attempting to weigh in on the melee. The two troopers made the mistake of watching the fight in front of them instead of the super-soldier on the ground; as soon as they drew even with his legs, Rogers lashed out with a quick, precise kick at the side of the nearest man's knee. The trooper, who had been aiming his weapon into the fight ahead of him, shrieked as ligaments and tendons in his knee tore and his legs shot out from under him. He hit the ground hard, briefly going silent as the fall forced the air from his lungs and the weapon from his hands.

When Steve kicked the legs from under the first man, that trooper's legs tangled with his partner's and caused the second man to fall as he bent to check on the unconscious, bleeding agent beside the car. When he released his weapon and put out his hands to break his fall, most of his weight landed on his bare hands - right in the pile of shattered window glass. Even as the maimed thug went temporarily quiet, his teammate filled the silence with shouted obscenities as he tried to pick glass shards out of his lacerated hands. And then the first thug recovered his breath, turning shouts into mutters beneath anguished screams.

Rogers noted the effects of his kick in passing, for there were two more enemies standing unengaged behind him. He rolled quickly to his right, closing the distance before either man could effectively target him - though the trooper carrying the shotgun did get off a shot before the super-soldier leaned up and grabbed the shotgunner's web harness. The agent yelped and attempted to straighten from his bent position, not wanting to go the the ground with an enhanced fighter. Steve used the pulling motion to lift himself off the ground, firing a sweeping kick at the remaining goon.

The last of the quartet was no fool; he'd anticipated Rogers would try for his legs, and so was able to jump when he saw the kick coming. He was not, however, experienced in fighting super-soldiers, and the speed of the attack made his efforts futile: Roger's toe caught him in the ankle as he was still rising into the air. The resulting tumble brought him down on top of his wounded squad mates, knocking bloody-hands into the side of the car and landing squarely on the shrieker's chest, ending the screams like an axe stroke as the wounded man's helmeted head bounced off the pavement.

Steve was on his feet now, his lever held suspended a foot off the ground; he took a moment to assess the situation of the remaining flank goons.

His mysterious ally was currently sparring with one trooper from the right flank; her other opponent lay unmoving on the blacktop, curled into a ball with both hands cupped protectively over his groin. The leader and his left-flank bodyguard were standing side-by-side a few feet away, the squad leader gesturing frantically and pointing at the fighters while his guard aimed an odd-looking weapon at the pair.

The trooper's body language seemed a bit reluctant to Steve; when he heard the leader's snarled "... don't care about 'friendly fire'! Full power! Now!", Rogers knew he had to intervene.

With a shouted warning to the woman who had jumped in to save him, Steve Rogers executed a textbook chest pass, sending a two-hundred-plus pound basketball flying into the guard, knocking him down and causing the weapon to discharge as the two fell in a heap. There was a loud, high-pitched double-pulse as the device sent a visible shockwave past the squad leader and into the parking lot beyond, shattering the windows on a half-dozen vehicles and catching the commander himself in the fringes of the blast. His hands shot up to cover his ears and he staggered, then collapsed to his knees before doubling over and vomiting.

Steve glanced over to where the last guard had been fighting the mystery woman, then paused to watch what appeared to be the end of the confrontation. The trooper had apparently slipped up, for while the fight had seemed evenly matched before, now he was down on one knee, clutching at his other leg. The woman wasted no time following up whatever blow had put him on the ground, stepping quickly to the man's side and slamming a knee up into his chin. Rogers clearly heard the _crack_ of breaking bone - or teeth - before the man toppled to the pavement and lay there, unmoving.

Steve grimaced down at the unconscious agent, working his jaw a moment before glancing back at the two goons near his car - one still attempting to pick shards of glass from his hands, the other dazedly sitting back on his heels. Satisfied both were out of action for the moment, he started toward the entangled troopers and their leader only to stumble as he finally got a good look at his ally.

She had stepped up to the commander - still on his knees but no longer puking - and was gazing down at him when Steve turned back toward her. Seeming to sense his eyes on her she looked back at Steve, dark eyes turning grim and lips tightening in anger before turning back to the Accords enforcement agent.

Easily recovering his balance, Rogers watched rooted to the spot as the brunette from the diner hauled back a fist and launched a haymaker, snapping the commander's head to the side. As the man collapsed bonelessly, Steve thought he heard the woman angrily mutter "... threaten to _kneecap_ Captain America!"

Blinking away his surprise, Steve finally started forward again, stepping quickly to the pair of agents. He reached down and lifted one with each hand, then casually rapped their helmeted heads together before dropping them unceremoniously. "Thanks for the save," he began, only to be interrupted.

"We need to move, they could have backup on the way already." She nodded at his rental before crouching over the downed enforcement commander. "Grab your gear, if you've got any." Bemused, Steve watched a moment as she picked up the blue canvas bag he'd dropped at the start of the melee and began loading it with documents and other objects from the leader's pockets.

Shaking his head, he turned to his car and the troopers around it. Pausing only to drop the last two wakeful goons with carefully measured jabs, Steve reached in the gaping driver's window and popped the trunk latch before retrieving his duffel. Turning back to the young woman, he saw her adding the sound weapon to her bag of loot.

The woman stood, tote slung over her shoulder like an oversize purse, and looked at Steve. "That everything?" she gestured at his own bag.

Ignoring the question, he stepped up to the young woman and studied her for a long moment. He considered all he'd seen her do here in the lot, and everything she'd said and done back in the diner. He only knew of a handful of people that could pull off what he'd just witnessed, and not all of them were friendlies. "Just who in the hell are you?" Steve asked quietly, letting his puzzlement show on his face.

The woman just gave him a crooked grin, reached out and punched him lightly on the shoulder, and said "No time Cap! Let's move."

Despite his lingering doubts, that grin seemed to loosen something inside that had been clenched tight since he left the Salvation Army. So when she turned and strode out of the parking lot, stepping around and over armored bodies, Steve Rogers followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth chapter was a mess, rewriting from scratch and then typing it up.


	4. Fugitive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve learns about his mysterious rescuer as they evade pursuit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Still rather messy, but I'm done wrangling with it. Mostly exposition. Lots and lots of exposition. Sorry!_

### Hey You

He checked his mirrors for what was probably the twenty-seventh time in just the last hour. Still no sign anybody was following the battered panel van as he headed north, blending in with the light mid-afternoon traffic on this California highway.

Vigilance satisfied - for now - his attention returned to the sound of rapid typing coming from the cargo area behind him. The sound which had been nearly constant since he got behind the wheel. The sound of his rescuer furiously working to facilitate their escape.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror, taking in the hunched, tight shoulders of the dark-haired, dark-eyed mystery woman, and found himself throttling an urge to speak up, to apologize.

 _Come on, Steve. What reason is there to feel guilty?_ he asked himself yet again. _She’s pissed you don’t trust her - so what? She won’t even tell you her name, let alone how she ended up in place to help back there._

He grimaced and checked the mirrors - again - while rerunning the confrontation in his memory for what felt like the hundredth time.

* * *

Steve followed the brunette from the parking lot to her van, politely not mentioning the pair of crew-cut, mufti-clad, unconscious men handcuffed to a dumpster. When she unlocked the passenger door and waved at him to “Get in, we’ve got to move,” he froze.

Part of him objected to the mere suggestion this woman could be an enemy, but another, louder part was shouting that the whole thing could be a ruse designed to put him at ease. _Fury, at least, is certainly capable of having his own agents attacked during an op,_ Steve thought. _And he’s one of the good guys. Theoretically._

He dropped his bag, crossed his arms and straightened his spine. Shaking his head slightly, he allowed an edge of frost to color his tone. “Not just yet. You never answered my question: Who are you? For that matter, who do you work for?”

The woman opened the side cargo door and tossed the tote bag into the van before turning to face Steve, a slight frown on her face. “Me? I’m a free agent, but we don’t have time for this right now. It won’t be long before one of the other pickets -” she pointed at the dozing duo “- shows up to check up on the status of the grab team. We need to _go_.”

With that she turned back and climbed into the van. Steve heard shuffling and banging - presumably the woman was transferring the bag’s contents to other containers. He stepped closer to the van to keep from having to raise his voice. “We’re not going anywhere until I’m convinced you’re not just another string to this bow. You could be taking me straight to another Accords team, or even working with somebody else entirely. Are you CIA? ATCU?” His voice hardened. “You could be _Hydra_ for all I know.”

As he tossed out the last accusation there was a loud _SLAM_ from inside the van, and the brunette exploded out the cargo door to stand in front of him. He had eight inches and more than a hundred pounds on her, but the blazing anger in her dark eyes as she stepped into his face nearly forced him back a pace. Almost.

Her finger jabbed into his chest, and her voice was hard and flat. “There’s paranoia, Rogers, then there’s just being an ass. Accords enforcement had _no clue_ I was here. I didn’t have to jump in. _I was in the clear_.” Practically snarling the last sentence, she dug the keys from her pocket and slapped them into his hand. “You drive. Put your gear in front. I’ve got work to do.”

Before Steve could respond, she’d hopped back into the van and slammed the door, leaving him staring at the blank steel.

* * *

Shaking off the memory, he looked down at the dash and noted the van had under a quarter tank of gas left. Reluctant to break the tense silence Steve glanced at the rear-view, blinking as he realized the constant typing had stopped. He studied the brunette’s reflection for a moment, taking in slumped shoulders and closed eyes as she leaned back in her seat. Somehow she looked simultaneously _very_ young and also as old as he felt, and Steve debated whether he should interrupt her dubious rest.

He had just decided to keep quiet a while longer when, eyes still shut, she chuckled humorlessly, murmuring “Usually when a guy eyeballs me like that he’s trying to work up the courage to buy me a drink.” She quirked a crooked smile at his reflected image, and Steve felt himself smile back as the tension in the van eased just a little bit.

“Sorry for staring,” he began, “We’re going to have to stop for gas soon, but I didn’t want to interrupt ... whatever it is you’ve been doing.”

“You want a play-by-play or will a game summary do?” she asked, cocking her head to one side.

“The short version, by all means. I _should_ be able to follow that much.”

“Yep, that’s you Captain Rogers, just a simple soldier.” Sarcasm, derision, and amusement infused her reply, causing Steve to quickly look back into the mirror. Raised eyebrows challenged him to deny playing dumb; he hid a grimace at being caught out.

He started to apologize for the weak attempt at humor, then changed course with a mental head shake. “Please, just call me Steve. I haven’t actually been a soldier for a long time.”

“Well then, Steve, what I did was clean up video evidence that we were ever in that town; lay in misdirection for the be-on-the-lookout notices that went out for the two of us and this van; clear the way ahead on Caltrans’ traffic cameras; and finally scanned and uploaded all the documents I took off of Agent Smith back there. Unless you know of any reason to keep the hard copies, I’ll destroy them first chance I get.”

“You _have_ been busy,” Steve said, his bland tone covering mild surprise. Tentatively, he continued, “If you don’t mind my asking, where in the world did you learn to do all that? I mean, it would have taken a small team of SHIELD communications techs to finish the same job as quickly as you did.” The sudden stillness behind him told Steve that the woman had easily seen through his fishing expedition; he braced for another sarcasm-laden quip.

Rather than launching another barbed comment, she simply sniffed contemptuously. “ _Please_. SHIELD couldn’t even find me until I _let_ them find me. I taught myself computers and cracking, thank you very much. Later on I refined my techniques as a hacktivist with the Rising Tide.”

Before Steve could decide which part of that he needed to follow up on first, the brunette held up her right hand before continuing, “Only took me that long because I think I hurt something when I decked that jerk.” He glanced back over his shoulder to see her flexing the hand with a grimace. “Actually hurts more now that I’m not using it.”

“If you’d like, I’ll take a look at it when we stop for gas.” He nodded out the windshield, indicating a road sign. “This next exit good?”

She leaned forward to read the sign, then nodded in his peripheral vision. “Yeah, that’s fine. There’s no indication anybody has the slightest clue where we are,” she waved at her computers, “so I should have plenty of time to cover our tracks.”

They continued up the freeway, the silence much more relaxed than before. As the van approached their exit, Steve cleared his throat. “So ... where does a ‘hacktivist’ learn to fight like that? Do I need to be worried about Rising Tide commandos on top of everything else?” he joked, smirking at the mirror.

She smirked back, “No, I learned that after SHIELD picked me up. Signed on as a consultant, then trained to be a field agent.” She snorted softly, shaking her head. “My team got a whiff of something rotten, turned out we’d been tracking a level eight Hydra mole. Might have had a bit of trouble identifying him, but after you and your buddies dropped the Insight helicarriers into the Potomac the moron outed himself when the rest pulled that ‘out of the darkness, into the light’ bullshit.”

“Okay, so I can know you were associated with a criminal hacker group, and you don’t mind telling me you were a SHIELD agent, but your _name_ is a bridge too far?” he asked, not even trying to disguise his incredulity.

The woman sighed wearily. “No matter how much I tell you, you’re going to go digging for more information - if only to confirm my story. Trust me when I tell you Steve, you don’t need my enemies added to yours, and that’s what will happen when you bring my name into it.”

“And you needed to add my enemies to yours? I’m pretty sure Accords enforcement agents will be gunning for you after this morning.”

In the mirror, Steve watched her lips curl into an expression that sort of _looked_ like a smile, before told him with a cold, flat voice, “Anybody that tries to ‘enforce’ that authoritarian piece of bureaucratic overreach they call the Sokovia Accords _is_ my enemy, whether they know it or not.” Then she shook herself, and continued in a more normal tone, “Besides, I’m pretty good at staying off the radar ... something that you very much need to get better at, Steve.”

“I probably do,” he agreed easily, “but you’re changing the subject again. If you’re dead set against me knowing your name, well, I guess I’ll have to live with it, though I’d like to call you _something_ other than ‘hey you’.”

She pondered that for a long moment, staring out the windshield at something only she could see. “Alright,” she began slowly, “would you be okay using the name I used when SHIELD picked me up?” When Steve nodded, she continued, “Then you can call me Skye.”

It took him a moment to realize she wasn’t going to continue, so he asked “Skye? Just that? No last name?”

The woman - no, _Skye_ grinned at him, shaking her head. “Nope.”

* * *

Steve pulled the van into the free-standing garage situated about fifteen yards from the secluded safehouse. Skye had been forced to let him drive, navigating from the passenger seat as she iced her battered - but thankfully not broken - right hand. They had nearly missed the unmarked turnoff in the gathering gloom; Steve’s enhanced eyesight allowed him to spot it just in time.

For all that her tech seemed to fill the van’s cargo area, they managed to fit it all in two largish boxes. Steve carted the gear inside while Skye checked the house’s solar-fed battery power grid, and brought necessary systems online.

The lights came up in an interior room just as Steve closed the outer door behind him. “Just leave the boxes out there,” Skye called from down the hall. She poked her head out of the lit doorway and smiled at him. “Come here, I’ve got something for you.”

“You set this place up yourself?” he asked as he moved down the hall, glancing into darkened doorways as he walked. Two small bedrooms equipped with bare twin beds; a storeroom with what looked to be a large stockpile of non-perishable foodstuffs. He’d seen similar setups when he ran SHIELD ops with STRIKE. “Seems a bit ... expensive.”

“Fishing again, Steve?” Skye chided him. “You’re the only other person that knows where this place is, if that’s what you were hinting at,” she teased. “As to ‘expensive’, well ... there were quite a lot of SHIELD resources floating around after Insight, plus you wouldn’t _believe_ how long Hydra had been stockpiling cash.”

Steve wondered if there was a reason she’d muttered that last bit, but decided not to ask. He also noted that Skye had neatly avoided telling him if she worked for or with any organization; he tabled his frustration at her deflections and returned to the subject at hand. “You said you have something to show me?”

“Indeed I do. You still have that phone number I gave back in the diner?”

He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt, suddenly worried that the receipt might have fallen out during the fight; when his fingers closed on a slip of paper he replied, “I think I’ve got -” Steve held up the paper, showing Skye the number. “Yes, here it is.”

“Good. Memorize that number, it’s the first step in turning any smartphone into _this_ ,” she grinned and waved what appeared to be a standard, off-the-shelf, last-generation StarkPhone.

“And what exactly is that?” Steve asked curiously. Skye’s obvious enthusiasm was infectious - he was finding it difficult to keep from smiling and leaning towards the former SHIELD agent.

“This,” she waved the phone at him again, “is a hand-held anti-surveillance toolkit, _and_ a secure connection to virtually any cellular network on the planet; unless constantly in use, it’s damn near impossible to track; allows a user to uplink with the top-line secure distributed storage network designed by yours truly.” As she wound down her explanation she looked expectantly up at Steve, eagerly awaiting any comments or questions he might have.

He turned the info-dump over in his head, staring blankly at the device in Skye’s hand. Just as she started to continue, Steve asked, “So that phone has capabilities that I can use to stay off the radar - electronically speaking, anyway - and would give me access to a secure data storage and communication network?”

“Yep, you can even access instructions and manuals right from the device - for _all_ of the programs and functions. Speaking of,” she held the phone out to him, “you should at least read the first level user’s manuals before attempting to use any of the tools other than the uplink and the, you know, actual _telephone_.”

After turning the phone over in his hand for a few seconds, Steve asked quietly, “Why are you giving _me_ access to your personal network?”

“Based on what happened today, you could use some help. You can’t always count on breaking contact after you’ve been spotted - better to never be found in the first place.” She shrugged and continued, somewhat sheepishly, “Besides, if I can’t trust _Captain America_ with my best software, then who can I trust?”

Steve grimaced at the emphasis on his old stage name, but nodded slowly as he thought. “And how many people _do_ have access to your software, this network?”

“Counting you and me?” When he nodded, Skye just smirked. “Two.”

He blinked at her for a moment, feeling his face heating, the dull burn echoing his shame. “And I’m the only person you’ve brought to this safehouse,” he said very quietly. She nodded at him, an eyebrow quirked in question. Steve only shook his head, unable to sort his confused thoughts. _I all but accused her of being a traitor, and she’s still trusting me with her security._

Before he could speak, before he could apologize, Skye spoke up again. “Oh yeah, the phone number! If you should happen to lose that phone, or if it gets damaged or compromised, just pick up any smartphone - Android, StarkPhone, iPhone, doesn’t matter - and dial that number.” She pointed at the receipt in his hand. “Follow the instructions to install the software and get your secure connection back.”

She started to add something else, but broke off with a jaw-popping yawn. “Oh, man am I tired. Read up on the basics, then tomorrow you can ask me any questions you have; I’ll set you up with a fake ID and some cash before we leave, too.” With another yawn she stood and moved towards the door, “This has been one long-ass day.”

“Skye.” She paused, looking back at him over her shoulder. “Thank you. For everything.”

She smiled tiredly back at him, the genuine smile he’d enjoyed so much at breakfast. “Sleep tight, Steve.” She started into the hall, then turned back suddenly. “Oh, and if you still want to check up on me, I suggest finding Maria Hill - or that one-eyed bastard Fury - and asking about the hacker from the Bus.”

Steve nodded, accepting the newest bit of information about his newest ally. Just before she passed out sight down the hall he said, “Good night, Skye. I’ll see you in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There may be a fifth chapter-slash-epilogue with a couple/three short scenes of reactions elsewhere in the world._


	5. Epilogue

### Gloating

Agent Sullins paused down the hall from General Talbot’s office door, waiting while his partner leaned on the wall. Clayton glanced thankfully over at him, taking the opportunity to get control of his breathing. Just as Sully opened his mouth to commiserate over the chewing-out they’d just been subject to, Talbot’s angry half-shout into his telephone prodded them back into motion.

Neither agent knew the “Coulson” person the general was loudly demanding to speak with, but both were glad Talbot’s ire seemed to have another target. Apparently the Accords enforcement team’s botched grab was generating enough crap that it was going to be spread far and wide in the ATCU.

As they exited the headquarters building and started back to their on-base accommodations, Clayton and Sullins kept their thoughts to themselves. It might not take long for scuttlebutt on the failed op to start circulating, but they were determined to not be one of the sources. Even if they _had_ witnessed the U.N. team drag ass back to the rally point, beaten and bloodied.

Clayton smiled grimly as he remembered the dazed expression on the team commander’s face, and debated whether knowing the smug bastard got his ass kicked was worth having a strip of hide taken off by Talbot. When they were safely inside the two-rack double room they shared - door locked and ATCU-issue anti-snooping device engaged - he turned to face Sullins. “Still can’t believe they only took twenty men to try and bring in Rogers,” he said, shaking his head in disgust.

Sullins snorted in agreement. “Seriously. I’m surprised so many of them were ambulatory.” He considered a moment; “Also _very_ glad they insisted we had to stay out of the actual attempt.”

“I do enjoy not having any broken bones right now,” Clayton laughed. “Can’t help but wonder how it all went down though; gotta be some reason they’re so hot to catch up with that brunette,” he mused.

His partner only nodded minutely in reply. That woman was a dangerous topic just now; if he let him, Clay would crack jokes for hours about Sullins being forced to sit with a sketch artist so the Accords people could get an idea of what she looked like. Rather, he would joke about the _sketch_ that had resulted, and Sully was in no mood for that.

Changing the topic as nonchalantly as he could, he waved at the white-noise-generating gadget and asked, “So, you still planning to put in for a transfer to the intel shop, Clay?”

“Roth is signing on, too,” Clayton confirmed. “You having second thoughts?” He grinned wickedly. “I mean, if a certain agent ever finds out about the description you gave the sketch artist, you might be better off kicking doors for the general.”

With as much dignity as he could muster, Sullins replied, “I think I could benefit from a little cross-training; maybe next time I have to sit with a sketch artist I won’t be so far off.” He gave Clayton a sour, crooked smile. “Besides, I doubt Agent May is all that easily offended.”

* * *

She sat patiently in the comfortable armchair, tuning out the droning telephone conversation taking place at the desk across the office. To an unfamiliar observer, her face and breathing could be called nothing less than serene; those lucky enough to know her well would see the mask for what it was. Of the few who would recognize the mask, the number that might see the anxiety lurking beneath could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

“... can personally assure you, general, that Agent May was here at the time of the operation.” _That_ got her attention, and she turned to give Phil Coulson an interrogative eyebrow quirk. He only rolled his eyes in response, and continued, “No, I can’t imagine who it is they are looking for. If you’ll send us the op report then we could take a look ...” He trailed off, listening to Talbot’s response. “I understand they didn’t give you the complete after-action report. Send over what they _did_ let you have and our analysts will go over it.” Coulson leaned forward over his desk, resting elbows on its surface and his forehead on his palm, listening to the general’s reply. “Okay. Send those files as well, please. Thank you, General Talbot.”

Quickly hanging up the phone, he sat back in his chair and closed his eyes with a sigh. May crossed the office silently, pausing beside Coulson’s desk; he looked up at her with a weary smirk on his face. “The op was an attempt to grab Captain Rogers.” Despite May’s best efforts, he must have caught her reaction for his smirk softened into a smile. “Just before the attempt, one Agent Clayton of the ATCU passed on Agent Sullins report of Roger’s having possibly made contact with somebody inside a diner,” he explained. As he opened his mouth to continue, his tablet beeped an incoming message notification - after a few quick taps on the device, Coulson turned to the large display on the wall of his office.

“Here,” he pointed at the wall, “is the sketch based on Sullins’ description.”

“Phil,” Melinda said slowly, scowling at the display, “why is my face on your wall?”

“Not sure,” he replied, trying not to grin. “Though you can ask Sullins yourself when he, Clayton, and Roth get here.”

Coulson’s urge to smile faded when faced by May’s stony glare; he turned back to the display and tapped at the tablet some more. The displayed sketch was replaced by a cluster of medical reports, names redacted. “This is all they gave Talbot - probably a not-so-subtle hint they blame the ATCU agents for their people getting hurt.”

Melinda joined Coulson in front of the display, studying the meager information. Phil had barely gotten through two of the reports - contusions, abrasions, and concussions; about what you’d expect fighting a super-soldier - when May spoke up, shaking her head. “Rogers didn’t do this alone.”

Coulson quickly turned to his friend, concerned by how flat her voice had gone. “How can you tell?” he asked carefully. May’s glare returned when she heard the cautious note in his voice, but she just indicated one particular report.

Frowning in concentration, he started reading the file in question, wondering what May saw that told her Cap wasn’t alone. _Let’s see ... mild concussion, abrasions on the left cheek and jaw ... oh. Ruptured testicle._ Failing to suppress a wince, Coulson turned back to his friend. “You’re right, not really his style.”

After a few tense seconds, he whirled and began pacing in front of his desk; May simply watched and waited, not daring to hope the director’s forthcoming analysis might match her intuitive conclusion. _It’s her._

Abruptly, Coulson stopped and faced her. “Okay, the U.N. being so annoyed with the ATCU indicates they did not manage to grab Rogers; that particular ... injury -” he winced again, “- suggests he had help during the confrontation; and the use of a sketch artist tells me they drew a blank when they tried to pull surveillance imagery on the diner contact ...” He trailed off, gazing into the distance with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Nothing you just said precludes multiple people helping him, Phil,” Melinda argued weakly.

“True, and we don’t know many people who could pull it off alone,” he agreed, the smile still trying to break free.

“Romanoff wouldn’t have any trouble - nobody knows where she disappeared to after Berlin.”

“I’m sure she’s keeping up to date,” Coulson nodded, “but I don’t think this was her. Can’t prove it wasn’t.” Now he was _smirking_ at her.

“Don’t gloat, Phil,” May growled at him. The effect was somewhat ruined by her own smile.

The smirk didn’t budge, but his brow furrowed in mock confusion. “What would I have to gloat over?”

“Your surrogate daughter rescued your childhood hero, and in the process pissed off an organization you vehemently oppose but have to work with for the sake of this agency. You’re gloating.”


End file.
